In the moving rectangle of afternoon sun, we sit on the couch in my living room. And I dream of snowy picnics--the slow glow of wine. My legs thrown over his like a familiar blanket. With our faces resting on opposite ends, I imagine us as some wild two headed beast with four skinny wooden legs. Our smell, toxic, of vinegar and strong coffee. We're both pretending to read. Instead, I'm remembering to breathe and trying not to think about the texture and weight of his tongue. Into the sun shape, I say, someday I'd really like to live in a house with a doorbell. He pats the top part of my right thigh with most of his palm and four out of five fingers. Twice. You're so strange, he says into the cooling latte on the table. Neither one of us know yet just what means. Afterward we have greedy furious sex on the floor. He decides not to stay for dinner.